Читать книгу Sky Sentinels - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

“Gadgets,” Lyons said to Schwarz, the Able Team’s electronics expert, “go double-check what the bomb squads are doing and then hurry back.”

Without a word the Able Team warrior zipped out of the Sunday school room door and disappeared down the hall toward the sanctuary.

Lyons pulled the red-scarfed man’s arm over the table in front of where he was sitting and braced it with his left hand. “This is going to hurt,” he told the terrorist. “Hold your breath.”

With a sudden yank on the Randall’s grip, he withdrew the blade of the custom-made fighting knife.

The terrorist screamed and jerked the injured limb back against his chest, cradling it like a baby with the other arm.

“Do us both a favor,” Blancanales said, irritated. “Act like a man instead of a bitchy little girl. You’re a shame to our entire gender.”

The prisoner quieted down, but small little moans still came from his mouth.

“Do like he said and shut up,” Lyons growled. “Or I’ll do the same to your other arm.” In truth, the Able Team leader had no intention of torturing the man. Torture was too unpredictable. The subject tended to tell his tormenters whatever he thought would make them stop, and it might or might not be the truth.

The fact of the matter was, Lyons had even found pinning the man’s wrist to the stage to get the detonator distasteful. But it had been the only practical way to disarm him. Guiding him into the Sunday-school room with the blade still stuck in his arm had been equally unpleasant. But it, too, had been the fastest and most pragmatic way of getting him out of the sanctuary and to a place where he could be questioned.

Now, as the injured man fell silent and tears streamed down his cheeks, Lyons looked him in the eye. “We’ve got two different routes we can take here,” he said to the man. “You can tell us everything you know about who you are and what your plans were.” He paused for a second, then went on. “Or we can play games until you bleed to death.” He pointed to the man’s wrist where the blood continued to leak in a slow but steady stream. Miraculously, it appeared he hadn’t completely severed any of the major arteries in the process of cutting the tendons and ligaments.

But he had to have at least nicked one.

Snatching the red scarf from around the man’s neck, the Able Team leader used it to wipe the blood off his knife. Then, dropping the Randall back into its sheath, he said, “Let’s start with your name. What is it?”

The man closed his eyes but the tears still flowed from under his eyelids. “Umar,” he finally mumbled.

Lyons leaned down, stuck a thumb on top of both of Umar’s eyelids and opened them for him. What he saw inside was a man who was as terrified now as the poor, defenseless congregation in the sanctuary had been during the earlier siege. “Okay, Umar,” he said. “Tell me who you and who the rest of the men are.”

Umar paused a moment, as if trying to think of an answer that would satisfy Lyons but still not betray his countrymen. But when he saw Lyons’s hand drop back down to the grip of the Randall knife, he said, “We are the Pasdaran. What you call the Iranian Revolutionary Guard.”

Schwarz had reentered the room and now stood on the other side of the man with the punctured wrist. “Right,” he said, leaning down on the other side and sticking his nose an inch away from Umar’s. “And I’m George Washington, father of this country.”

Umar shook his head back and forth violently. “No!” he declared, his eyes still on Lyons’s hand gripping the knife. “It is the truth. We have been sent here by President Azria himself.”

Lyons straightened but still stared hard at the man across the table. Could that be true? Javid Azria, the president of Iran, was a megalomaniac every bit as crazy as North Korean dictator Kim Jong Il. And regardless of Azria’s claim to the contrary, everyone knew Iran had been working on a nuclear program ever since he had taken control of the country. And Azria had either refused or stonewalled all attempts by the UN to inspect that program.

If Azria had already worked out the kinks in his nukes, it might just have resulted in the courage to send official troops onto American soil. That possibility cast a whole new shadow over an already dire scenario.

“What were you supposed to do here?” Lyons demanded.

Umar took a deep breath, then looked down at his wrist, which was still spouting blood.

“I wouldn’t waste too much time if I were you,” said Rosario Blancanales, who stood directly behind the man. “You’ve probably lost a pint or two already. Feeling a little light-headed?”

Umar slowly nodded to indicate that Blancanales was right.

“Then I’d talk fast if I was you,” Lyons said. “While you still can. Believe me, you tell us the truth—the whole truth—and you’ll get immediate medical attention. You’ve got my promise on that. If you don’t, we’ll just watch you slowly pass out and then die right here.” He leaned closer and added, “It’s your decision.”

“We are Revolutionary Guard,” he said. “And our orders, which came directly from the president’s mouth, were to find a large church in the area of the U.S. known as the Bible Belt, take it over during a Sunday-morning service and blow it up.”

“And you were planning to blow yourselves up with it?” Lyons asked.

Umar nodded his head, and it was apparent to all three Able Team warriors that the line separating terrorists from officially sanctioned government soldiers had finally been crossed. It was also obvious that Umar was getting close to the point where he’d pass out.

“So it was a suicide mission?” Schwarz said.

Umar nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice weak.

Lyons knew he’d have to hurry if he planned on getting more intelligence information out of this bleeding Pasdaran. As if to emphasize his thoughts, Umar’s chin suddenly fell to his chest and his eyes closed again.

Lyons slapped him across the face. “You’re faking it, you little scumbag,” he said. “You think we just gave you a way out of all this. You’re wrong.”

Either the slap or Lyons’s words or both brought the Pasdaran’s head and eyelids back up immediately.

“So I can assume that you’re not the only squad of Pasdarans in the country?” Lyons said.

Umar nodded. “There are dozens,” he said.

“Where do we find them?” the Able Team leader demanded.

Umar slowly shook his head, and it was obvious that he really was getting dizzy now. “I do not know.” His words slurred like a drunken man’s. “Each unit knows only their own orders.”

Lyons straightened to his full height and turned away from the bleeding man, his thoughts returning to Iran and Azria and the nuclear program. American intelligence agencies all knew that most terrorist strikes against the U.S. were backed and supported by the various governments of the Middle East. But this was never admitted to by those governments. To openly send official troops—especially troops as identifiable as these men in the red scarves—was unheard of.

Carl Lyons knew that Iran had developed nukes. His gut assured him of that. But did they have missiles, too? Ironically, that was where nuclear programs in rogue countries such as Iran usually got stalled. Building nuclear bombs was relatively easy compared to developing their delivery systems.

Lyons continued to stare down at the bleeding man. Even if the Iranians didn’t have missiles to tote the nukes halfway around the world, there were many other ways to sneak them into the U.S. and then detonate them. And even if they didn’t attack America, Israel was barely a stone’s thrown away from Iran.

One nuclear explosion in Israel and a chain reaction could easily escalate straight into World War III. Such devastation was unthinkable to the average, sane man no matter what his politics or the country he called home. But to a madman like Javid Azria it might seem to be a perfectly logical step.

The Able Team leader turned back to Umar and saw that the man really had fallen asleep this time. “Pol,” Lyons said, “go get some cops to wrap this guy up and get him to an ambulance where he can be transfused.” He looked at the man in the chair who was still clutching his arm to his chest in his sleep. “And tell them he needs to be arrested and guarded. We may get more out of him later if he lives.”

Blancanales hurried out of the room.

Schwarz and Lyons walked out together. They had taken only a few steps down the hall back toward the sanctuary when Lyons’s satellite phone rang. Lyons held the instrument to his ear and said, “Yeah?”

“You learn anything worthwhile?” Hal Brognola’s voice asked.

“Just some general stuff. No specifics,” Lyons answered. “These guys claim to be official Iranian Pasdaran instead of terrorists, and according to the one who lived, there are several dozen bands of them scattered across the U.S.” He paused as Schwarz opened the outer door of the church. “But each squad appears to be autonomous. None of them know what the others’ orders are.”

“Well,” Brognola said, “I can tell you what at least one of them is doing at the moment.”

“What’s that?” Lyons said.

“I’ll brief you once you’re in the air,” said Brognola. “One of the local PD helicopters will take you to the airport, where Charlie Mott’ll be waiting for you.”

Blancanales joined them as they walked down the steps of the church. Almost as soon as Lyons had pushed the button to end the call, he heard the chatter of helicopter blades in the air above him. Looking up, he saw a blue-and-white chopper with OCPD markings.

The chopper set down on the grass in front of the church and the men of Able Team quickly boarded. A moment later the helicopter was rising again, headed for Will Rogers World Airport a few miles away.

D AVID M C C ARTER came wide awake as soon as the phone rang next to his bed. Before it could chime again, he had snatched it from its cradle. He glanced at the wristwatch on the table next to the phone and saw that he’d had four hours of sleep.

Well, the native Londoner thought, it was at least more than usual. “McCarter here,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“Grab your buddies and gear up,” Hal Brognola’s voice said into the phone. “You’re on your way to Iran.”

McCarter yawned. “Iran,” he said. “Always wanted to go there.”

“Well,” Brognola said, “you’re gonna get the chance. I’m about to land outside and I’ll brief you and the other guys once you’re on board.”

“You’re going in with us?” McCarter asked.

“No,” Brognola clarified. “I’ll just be riding along to run down the situation for you. Jack will fly me back as soon as you’re on the ground.”

McCarter yawned again. “That’s going to cut into your own time,” he said, glancing at the wristwatch again.

“Not as much as you think,” Brognola said.

“Come again?” McCarter requested.

“You’ll see what I mean in a few minutes. Grimaldi’s got a brand-new toy.”

David McCarter saw no reason to keep questioning Brognola on the subject. So he changed it. “Anything special we need to bring with us?”

“Just your personal weapons and other gear,” said Brognola. “Kissinger’ll be loading the extras while you round up your men.”

“Affirmative,” McCarter said. Even as he spoke he was pulling open a drawer filled with BDU clothing. “Just give me five.”

“I’ll give you four,” Brognola said, and then the line went dead.

McCarter donned a clean blacksuit—the skintight, stretchy combat clothing of Stony Man warriors—and zipped up his boots. He reached for the large duffel bag that held the rest of his equipment. He had learned long ago that you packed before you slept in one of the Stony Man Farm bedrooms. Stony Man missions broke quickly, and tasks that required five minutes had to be completed in four.

Or less.

Leaving the room, McCarter walked along the hallway knocking loudly on the four doors he passed. The other members of Phoenix Force knew what the noise meant.

They were heading out again.

Two minutes later, the five-man squad walked out the front door of Stony Man Farm’s Main House and headed for the landing strip. Just in time to see a strange plane land on the runway.

“What in bloody hell is that thing?” McCarter said to no one in particular as they walked toward the aircraft.

“It’s a Concorde,” Gary Manning said. The burly Canadian was Phoenix Force’s explosives expert.

“We know it’s a Concorde, Gary,” said Rafael Encizo. “What our brilliant former British SAS man means is, what’s it doing here? ”

A moment later the five warriors had boarded the bird-looking Concorde, which was being flown by Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man Farm’s number-one pilot. Brognola sat in the redecorated passenger’s area in a reclining chair that was bolted to the carpeted deck. The other men dropped down into similar seats around the plane.

“Okay,” said Thomas Jackson Hawkins in his South Texas drawl. “I give up. Where’d you pick up this monstrosity, Hal?”

Hal Brognola laughed. “Got it practically for a song,” he said. “When the Concordes went out of business. As you can see, we’ve completely redone the inside.”

“How come you didn’t tell us about it?” Calvin James asked. The former Navy SEAL was from the south side Chicago.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Brognola said. “These recliners are great to sleep in. It’s going to give you more rest before each mission.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that,” McCarter said as the Concorde took off down the runway again. “But first tell us why we’re heading for Iran.”

Brognola nodded, then looked at his watch. “A lot has gone on since you boys shut your eyes in the Main House a few hours ago.” He told the men of Phoenix Force about the murders of the newsmen and the hostages in Iran, as well as the attack on the church in Oklahoma City.

“The actual word war was never used when the Man was talking to the Iranian president,” he said. “But that ratty little bastard might as well have. He took personal credit for his men crossing into Iraq, killing two men from FOX in cold blood and kidnapping the hostages. As well as the takeover of the church.” Brognola pulled the remaining half of his cigar out of his front jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth. “And he promised there was more to come. He even insinuated a nuclear strike on both Israel and the U.S.”

“So what is it we’re on our way to do?” Manning asked.

“Rescue the remaining five Americans,” Brognola said solemnly. “And do your best to stop World War III.”

Calvin James reached behind his back and pulled out a twelve-inch Crossada knife. It resembled a mediaeval dagger, and James kept it sharp enough to shave with either edge. “I’d like about thirty seconds with Azria and this,” he said, staring at the huge knife in his hand. “Just the three of us.”

“Well, you may get your chance,” Brognola said. “There’s no telling which way this thing’s going to go at this point. But I can tell you that the Man in Washington is gearing up for a full-scale attack, both nuclear and conventional. The captive Lyons and his crew took, said there were at least a dozen Pasdaran teams already in the country and getting ready to strike all over the States.”

The sentence brought on a profound silence as the Concorde rose higher into the air.

Brognola continued. “We’re going to land in occupied Iraq. There, you’re meeting a former CIA snitch named Adel Spengha. He’s also known as “the Desert Rat.”

“Are you telling us he doesn’t mind that name?” McCarter asked.

“Evidently not. He’s half Iranian and half Pakistani, and he’ll guide you through the mountains into Iran.”

“This bloke trustworthy?” McCarter asked.

“Are snitches ever trustworthy?” Brognola retorted. “You’ll have to watch him for double crosses just like always. I could count on one hand the number of informants I’ve had over the years who weren’t playing both sides of the fence. And I’d still have enough fingers left over to throw a decent curve ball.”

McCarter nodded his head.

“Okay, then,” Brognola said. “This Concorde is going to get us where we’re going in about half the time we’d make in a regular plane. So if I was you, I’d take advantage of that time to catch up a little more on your sleep.” Without another word, the director of Stony Man Farm leaned back in his recliner and closed his eyes.

So did the men of Phoenix Force.

And when they opened them again, the Concorde’s wheels were touching down on the runway of a U.S. military base in eastern Iraq.

C HARLIE M OTT was a long time Stony Man pilot. So it was no big trick for Mott to set one of the newly acquired Concordes down on the runway in Oklahoma City. Officials at Will Rogers World Airport had already been contacted by the Justice Department, and the sight of the odd, bird-beak-looking aircraft brought out only a mild curiosity on the parts of the Will Rogers’s crewmen who greeted him.

“I wondered what was going to happen to these things after the company went broke,” said a white-bearded mechanic in coveralls when Mott walked down the folding staircase. “Who are you with now?”

“The Department of Justice,” Mott lied.

“That the truth?” asked the man with the beard.

“Uh-uh.” Mott smiled. “But if I told you the truth, I’d have to take you up in it and drop you out at about forty thousand feet.” He paused and adjusted his California Angels baseball cap. “Without a parachute.”

The man with the white beard laughed. The noise conveyed not only humor but a tiny bit of nervousness, as well.

Silence fell over the tarmac until an Oklahoma City PD sedan, lights flashing and siren blaring, suddenly appeared and began crossing the runways toward the Concorde. “Ah,” Mott said. “My passengers have arrived.”

The marked unit screeched to a halt and Lyons, Blancanales and Schwarz got out.

“Need a lift?” Mott asked as they hurried his way.

“Yeah,” Lyons said. “But where did you get this thing?” He indicated the Concorde with his head.

“Hal bought a couple of them,” Mott said. “I think you’ll be impressed.” Without another word, he turned and hurried up the steps. The men of Able Team followed.

As they taxied down the runway, Lyons said, “Hal’s supposed to brief us in the air. Any idea where we’re going?”

Mott pulled a headset over his ears and began fiddling with the Concorde’s control panel. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I know exactly where you’re going. To a suburb of Kansas City called Shawnee Mission.”

The Concorde left the ground looking like some kind of a determined predatory bird in flight.

As the trio moved to the reclining chairs bolted to the deck in the back of the plane, Lyons pulled his satellite phone from a pocket. Once seated, Lyons tapped in the number to Stony Man Farm.

A second later Hal Brognola was on the line. And the conversation turned serious.

Deadly serious.

A LL EYES on the ground rose to the air then fell to the runway with the Concorde as it landed at the U.S. military base near Mandali, Iraq.

They stayed glued to the men of Phoenix Force as the five men—all dressed in blacksuits and wearing side arms, as well as carrying assault rifles—walked down the steps to the ground.

McCarter started to lead them toward the buildings in the distance. But before he could even take a step in that direction he saw two jeeps racing toward them. Both sets of tires screeched to a halt in front of the Phoenix Force warriors, and the drivers—both wearing 101st Airborne patches on their sleeves—motioned them to hop aboard.

A few minutes later they were in front of a desk with a nameplate that read Colonel L. D. Brown. They shook hands all the way around, then dropped into five folding chairs that had obviously been brought in just for this meeting.

Colonel Brown might as well have had U.S. Army stamped on his forehead. Although obviously around sixty years old, he still had a full head of hair flattened into a white buzz cut. His face was worn and wrinkled, reminding McCarter of a dry creek bed, and although he was only around five feet six or seven inches tall and maybe 140 pounds, the muscles in his tattooed arms, which extended out of his short-sleeved uniform shirt, would have rivaled those of Popeye the Sailor.

Brown had started to speak when a sergeant suddenly opened the door and ushered a man dressed in robes and a kaffiyeh into the room. He looked up at the colonel to see what his next move should be, and Brown raised a hand and waved him in.

The door to the office closed behind him.

“Gentlemen,” Brown said to the men of Phoenix Force. “Say hello to Adel Spengha. He also goes by Desert Rat. And he’s worked with the CIA for years.”

Another round of handshakes took place and then Brown said, “Rat here, can get you through the mountains and into Iran faster and safer than anybody I know. But that doesn’t mean you won’t encounter any of the enemy.”

The man called Rat had taken a seat in another of the folding chairs, and now he opened his mouth. Speaking in near-unaccented English he said, “The Zagros Mountains, which border Iraq and Iran, are filled with Iran’s regular troops, brigands and a tribe of Kurds who got caught in the middle of things when the war first started. All are dangerous.” He paused a second, then added, “I must be honest. It would be much wiser not to go.”

“That depends on how important a chap’s mission is, I suppose,” McCarter answered him. “We don’t always have the luxury of doing the smart thing. Sometimes we have to do the necessary thing.”

The Rat nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “I understand. So, when do you want to get started?”

“There’s no time like the present,” said McCarter, standing. The rest of the men of Phoenix Force followed.

Brown walked out of the office and down the hall with them. “The jeeps will take you as far as they can,” he said. “But then you’re on your own.”

“That’s usually the case,” McCarter told Brown. “Thanks for your help.”

The two men shook hands once again, then the men of Phoenix Force and Adel Spengha piled into the jeeps.

As they started toward the Iranian border, McCarter saw the Concorde take off again over his shoulder.